So many possibilities

Dhirkk Stridr knew exactly what fate had in store for him. There was only one place in troll society for psychics with his particular talents, and after a particularly masochistic phase in which he researched the process of helming in excruciating detail, he was practically an expert in the torture to which his wrigglerhood was little more than a short, miserable countdown.

This was not to say he did nothing to try and save himself. In fact, he made a heroic effort to do just that. Over the course of a sweep he rigged a complex systems of radar and early-warning systems all around his coastal hive. He slotted together guard droids out of what scraps he could scavenge or afford, in the hopes that they could buy him time to flee when the helms-hunters inevitably came knocking. By the time he hit nine sweeps, he was as prepared as he could be--or so he thought.

Dirk had turned his hive into a fortress, and thus he was entirely taken by surprise when his doom came while he was out fishing. His first warning came subtly, when he realized that he had heard nary a squawk from his normally-chatty seagull lusus in at least ten minutes. With a vague sense of dread, he exchanged his fishing pole for his katana and went to investigate. What he found made his blood pusher plunge into the pit of his stomach; his beloved feathery asshole of a guardian lay sprawled out on the sand, both wings broken and head half-vaporized from the force of a blaster.

The grief had scarcely set in before a concussive blast rang out over the beach, and too late Dirk recognized the sonic-powered psi-suppressor for what it was. The aftermath of the blast left his head throbbing and horns sparking uselessly. His limbs were heavy and his body numb, and the footsteps charging toward him sounded deceptively distant. Sorrow turned to desperation, which threatened panic, and Dhirkk bolted, but he knew that he was doomed long before a much larger body dragged his to the ground. His head hit the sand, and a cloth soaked in some sickly-sweet chemical was pressed over his nose and mouth. The last thing he remembered seeing were pale feathers blurring before him, stark white against the sand.

Consciousness came and went slowly. Despite being drugged into a docile stupor, Dirk managed to register the sharp pain in his spine as the newly-installed ports that would link him to some lucky motherfucker's ship. That was about all he could feel, aside from his pulsing headache. His arms and legs were numb, and although Dirk knew that it wasn't standard procedure to amputate a helmsman's limbs anymore, he couldn't help the panic that felt like iron bars wrapped around his ribcage. He tried to struggle, and didn't know if he succeeded; he couldn't feel himself move. He didn't know if his eyes were open or closed; either way, he couldn't see. In contrast, the smell of antiseptic was overpowering, filling his nostrils and making the pain in his head even more unbearable.

For a long while, he was positive that he had imagined Jakove’s voice. No matter how he tried to force the thoughts away, he couldn’t help but fantasize that his dear friend had come to his rescue. That, of course, only served to make his present situation appear even worse by comparison.

How much time had passed? Minutes? Nights? Dhirkk felt fingers in his hair, scratching at the base of his horns. It seemed like it should have felt nice, but every touch sent jolts of pain from his horns down the back of his neck. Then again, he was already in so much pain that it barely made a difference.

“Oh! He’s opened his eyes again,” came a voice, familiar, and yet it sounded impossibly distant. “Are you back with us, lad?”

Dhirkk tried to speak. He didn’t know if he succeeded, but he heard half-hearted laughter from the same voice.

“You really aren’t feeling up to dick, are you? Can’t say I blame you, you look like a damn pincushion with all these gadgets attached to you. Could make a fella feel woozy just taking a gander, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

This troll had such a stupid way of saying words. Dhirkk felt improbably and overwhelmingly flushed and didn’t quite know why, but he decided that the horn scratches he was getting were acceptable, in this case. He registered, on some level, that he had his eyes open. It took all of his concentration to process the shapes and colors in front of him into the recognizable form of a troll. He saw pronged horns, green eyes, an unfairly handsome face. His mouth moved without his permission, and he didn’t know what he said, but whatever it was made the strange troll laugh.

“Ha! Stridr, you are quite the cake eater, even when you are sauced something awful. But how about you settle down for a spell? You’re in awfully rough shape.”

A broad-palmed hand firmly papped his cheek, and Dhirkk’s eyes rolled back in his head. Another voice, unfamiliar, said, “Jesus dicks, Englis, warn me before you drive up the rating on this shit. Here I thought we were at T for language and mild violence, but papping a guy when he’s down? That’s pretty fuckin’ NSFW (not safe for wigglers) if you ask me.”

Dhirkk’s green-eyed angel startled, jerking his hand away (to Dhirkk’s great distress) and fluttering nervously. “Hush, you! That wasn’t a proper pap, just your run-of-the-mill caress between bros. Can’t I comfort a friend without it being exaggerated into some big stinking deal? Besides, I’m positive he doesn’t care for me that way; I couldn’t do that to him.”

He was right there; Dhirkk could use a solid papping, but the things he was feeling were certainly not pale. He wondered if this handsome stranger would put those glorious papping hands to a better use, to hell with a tender bro caress. Not safe for wigglers indeed.

Dhirkk’s greenblood was still blushing, and now the other troll was cackling. “Oh my god, he is so fuckin’ high right now. Are you getting this, Englis? This is solid gold.” Dhirkk had a sinking feeling he had said at least some of that out loud, but that was a problem for sober Dhirkk.

An electronic door opened on the other side of the room. Dhirkk couldn’t see it from his perspective, but he could hear the newcomer’s footsteps and voice as she greeted the other trolls in the room. Her voice was also strangely familiar, and friendly. Dhirkk had the previously unknown feeling of being in good hands, despite being in all kinds of agony. “How’s he doing?” she asked.

“Well enough to tell Jakove what he can do what his hands,” the unfamiliar troll said dryly.

“Listen here,” Jakove said sternly. “My friend here is an extremely proud individual and I don’t think he would appreciate being the butt of all these japes while under the weather! At least give the poor sap some privacy!”

Dhirkk barely heard Jakove defending his honor, because the sound of his friend’s name made everything fall into place. The fear that had consumed his childhood, his determination not to drag Jakove down with him, his lusus lying dead in the sand, the combination of helplessness and painful clarity when the anesthetic failed and he was forced to experience every agonizing moment in the helm… With surprising strength, Dhirkk seized Jakove’s arm. His dear friend looked down at him, shocked at the newfound lucidity in his expression.

“Jay—” Dhirkk managed to say before his voice died in his throat. Immediately Jakove reached down to cup his face in both hands. The other two trolls crowded around the hard cot he was lying on. Dhirkk realized he was shuddering, while Jakove tried to shoosh him without crossing the invisible line between intimate and outright pale. Dhirkk didn’t know if he wanted to send Jakove away for his own safety, or curl up in his arms and let himself be cared for, and the indecision as much as the pain froze him in place. Jakove made the decision for him, taking both hands in his own and crouching down so that he was on eye-level.

The moment seemed to drag on, but at the end of it a female troll came into Dhirkk’s view. She looked haggard, as if she hadn’t slept in a long while, but her eyes remained bright and curious. “Dhirkk, can you understand me?” she asked. Dhirkk nodded slowly, and she continued. “My name is Jadite Harley. You’re on the Scout Ship Typheus, which is still under construction. You were assigned to be the ship’s helmsman, but all of us pretty much collectively decided to fuck the system. We’re still figuring out what to do next, but all you have to worry about for now is recovering.”

Dhirkk tried to say something along the lines of, ‘this is a massive breach of protocol’ or ‘you’re all going to fucking die,’ but that proved to be too much for him at the moment, and all that came out was a disoriented grumble. Jadite rolled her eyes and said, “Wow, you do not know how to take a break. You’ve been trying to move and talk since we moved you in here, and you’re just tiring yourself out! When I say focus on recovering, I mean settle the fuck down for a few nights. That is non-negotiable.”

Before Dhirkk could argue, the last troll in the room ambushed him with a bottle of water that Dhirkk realized he desperately needed. As he drank, this troll, a rusty with a broken horn, introduced himself as well. “Davidh Stridr—yeah, same name, how weird is that? I’m the only one here without a fancy academy degree and official job on the ship, so I guess that means I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Woulda packed my sexy nurse costume if I’d known, but hey, what are you gonna do.”

Water had dribbled down Dhirkk’s face by the time Davidh had finished talking, but he couldn’t wipe it away while Jakove still had both his hands. Somehow, this didn’t seem like any real problem. The greenblood smiled, barely hiding the worry in his expression, but so obviously trying to appear optimistic. It made Dhirkk’s blood pusher turn in his chest. “It’s all a bit of a clusterfuck, but I’m sure we can all work something out. Just let us take care of things, and let that magnificent think pan of yours rest for a spell.”

For once in his life, Dhirkk couldn’t bring himself to argue. Still, he was extremely grateful when Jakove waited by his side until, aided by painkillers and the softest of horn scratches, he lost consciousness once more.

—

For the second time in however many perigrees, Johnne thanked the Mirthful Messiahs for Rosali. As soon as he and Jadite removed the helmsman from the engine block, the Typheus had as much flight capability as your average hunk of metal, and heads would roll if they weren’t ready to launch at the scheduled time. So, with all the bluster and bullshit at their disposal, Johnne and Rosali stalled for time. Without warning she summoned Johnne to join her in her palace on the Cetus moon base, and when questioned, explained only that she required the presence of her moirail. With Johnne away, the Typheus was officially grounded, giving Jadite time to put a plan of her own into motion.

Rosali’s pile was unfairly plush, made up of half-knitted sweaters and scarves, suspiciously tentacled stuffed toys, and the occasional ironic crystal ball. A polished wood needle was poking Johnne in the thigh; the voice of Davidh that lived in his head like a horcrux went on a tangent about stiff mammalian cocks. He really had been brushing up on his xenobiology lately.

“If you start grooming me, I’m leaving,” Johnne said, but of course that was bullshit. Furthermore, Rosali hadn’t planned on doing anything of the sort, but as soon as the words left Johnne’s mouth, she leaned down and dragged her tongue through his hair. He squawked and squirmed, but didn’t try very hard to get away. He couldn’t go far anyway, not with his his moirail’s arms wrapped tight around his chest. It wasn’t long at all before he gave up and slumped against her, head pillowed on her rumble spheres. “Gross,” he said, sounding very much like a petulant child.

Rosali’s nose wrinkled, and she plucked a short, dark hair off her tongue.

“Quite,” she said. “It seems that, for once, indulging the first spite-fueled urge that pops into my head may have come back to bite me in the ass.”

“What have we said about indulging spite-fueled urges” Johnne said.

Rosali extended a hand. “Greetings, Mr. Pot. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Johnne broke into a broad grin and returned the offered handshake with a firm grasp. “And to you, Madame Kettle. May I just say that you’re looking awfully black tonight?’

“Black? I daresay I’m feeling rather pale,” Rosali said, and that was the only warning before she scratched around the base of Johnne’s horns just so. He melted without a shred of resistance, making soft sounds that could be felt more than they were heard. He was helpless, then, when Rosali spoke again. “Speaking of spite-fueled urges…”

“Yeah?” Johnne said, his voice soft and rumbly.

“Tell me more about this helmsman of yours.”

Johnne’s eyes snapped open where they had drifted shut. When he looked up, he caught sight of Rosali’s impeccably painted smile and a familiar gleam in her eye. Comprehension dawned, and he said, “Did I fall into a psychoanalysis trap?”

“Yes,” said his dear moirail. “Tell me your darkest secrets. I promise, it's only for your own good."

Johnne stuck his tongue out at her, but it was difficult to be defiant while her fingers continued to comb through his hair. “Ugh, fine. He was gonna be the Typheus’ helms man, but now he’s not.”

“Why is that?” she said.

“What does it matter?” Johnne didn’t know why she was on this topic, but it didn’t seem like she was going to drop it anytime soon. “It’s my ship, and I can do what I fucking want. In this case, what I fucking want is not to hurtle through the frigid depths of space with a barely-alive troll shell keeping everything from weapons to lifesupport up and running.”

“It’s not like you to be afraid of a troll with no agency or power to carry out any malicious intent he might hypothetically harbor toward you.”

“No, that’s not it. I know he can’t do anything, but it’s still fucked up, you know? It’s just gonna be the five of us out there, me, Jadite, Davidh, Jadite’s academy friend, and oh yeah, the poor sap launching us around at light speed at the cost of constant agony and being unable to move his limbs.

Rosali’s smile had curved into a thoughtful frown. “Those helmstrolls can be frightfully pitiful, can’t they?”

“What? No.” Johnne craned his neck back to look directly at his moirail’s upside-down face. “I don’t pity him, or at least not him specifically. It’s just…” He fell silent, searching for words, soothed by his moirail’s continuing ministrations. “It’s really fucking brutal, and for no good reason. You’ve talked to Jadite, you know how we could develop technology that would make helms trolls obsolete. If we can make something better, why shouldn’t we?”

After a moment, Rosali’s lips quirked upward, and she leaned down to kiss the top of Johnne’s head. “You’re so soft,” she said.

“Hey, fuck you? I’m such a deadly and hard core high blood, so you can take your kisses and condesceffectionate words elsewhere!” That, of course, earned him another kiss, complete with a black lipstick smear on his cheek. Johnne groaned dramatically, but all the pretend-wriggling in the world couldn’t free him from his moirail’s iron grasp.

“You are neither of those things,” she said. “You’ve done well enough, regardless. Still, it is my job to be concerned for you, and I intend to keep doing just that. To that end, have you considered my advice?”

“You can’t just say that like you don’t tell me what to do in literally all areas of my life, you meddlesome witch. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Of course, my mistake. I was referring to my advice regarding your romantic pursuits.”

“Oh, the kismesis thing?”

“Indeed. I believe a kismesis would help you hone your aggression and learn how to properly challenge a rival, skills that will only become more relevant as you earn your place among the aristocracy.”

Johnne made a face, but said, “You’re probably right, but I can’t just go out and find one. I don’t feel that way about Davidh or Jadite, and Jakove’s kind of a weenie. And what would I say to someone else? ‘Hey, want to start a committed relationship right before I fuck off to the far corners of the galaxy for god knows how long?”

There was a long moment of silence. Rosali reached for her moirail’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Johnne’s expression softened. “Aww, Ros’, I’m gonna miss you too.”

Once more, her lips curled into a smile. “Soft,” she said, but she didn’t complain when he pressed a gentle kiss to the palm of her hand, and didn’t let go afterward.

—

“My hive ran almost entirely on nuclear power, and I’ve built nuclear engines before. It shouldn’t be hard to adapt a ship this size to run without the use of a helmsman,” Jadite said, fussing with the blueprints from her old hive.

Davidh and Jakove offered a chorus of encouragement and enthusiasm, even if they lacked expertise with such complex equipment. But when Dhirkk started to recover enough to discuss these plans, he demonstrated a surprising amount of mechanical aptitude. Before long, Jadite found herself bringing him into the project as an equal, and between the two of them, they were able to turn a scattered collection of obscure tech and experimental designs into something that might just get them off the ground.

Construction started within the week. Jadite took a hands-on approach to leading the project. Although they didn’t have the same engineering ability, Jakove could read and follow a blueprint with some amount of skill, and Davidh was a quick learner. Dhirkk, who was still at less than full health, focused on keeping everything on schedule and optimally functional.

A video call with Johnne and Rosali showed the former helmsblock completely dismantled, while the four of them installed the new machinery piece-by-piece. Jadite and Jakove were laser-focused, handling something that glowed green and looked both deadly and extremely fragile. The highbloods tried to contain their conversation to the Stridrs rather than distracting them.

“How do I know you’re not turning the ship into a bomb?” Johnne asked, more to be difficult than out of any real concern.

He was gratified by the annoyance that crossed the helmsman-turned-mechanic’s expression. “Harley’s designs are solid,” Dhirkk said. “This thing can generate a shit-ton of power, and I can personally guarantee that there is a zero percent chance of you having to scrape my remains out of the wires in approximately ten sweeps. I can give you the likelihood of the engine going supernova during FTL travel, but those numbers will be pulled directly out of my ass.”

It had taken all of about one conversation with Davidh for Dhirkk to learn that the resident highbloods were probably not going to murder him for poor manners. Of course, they had other ways of getting even.

“What’s the scientific definition of a shit ton?” Johnne asked, feigning genuine curiosity.

“More than an assload, less than a fuckton,” Dhirkk said without missing a beat. “Do they not teach you that in the academy, sir?”

“Ohhhhh shit!” Davidh exclaimed; he was quickly shushed by Jadite.

“We’re trying to focus!”

“It’ll be a miracle if the ship can fly at all if it’s expected to carry such incredible amounts of horseshit,” Rosali said.

Dhirkk nodded solemnly. “I can’t promise we won’t have to eject someone into space, you know, to lighten the load.”

“Or keep someone muzzled!” Jakove interrupted. “Boy howdy, can you lot carry on!”

“I can see we’re not wanted,” Rosali said.